Faded
by Raletha
Summary: [Postscript] One of many nights during Trowa and Quatre's trip through Europe while Trowa picks up the pieces of his past. This goes in the same timeline as Oubliette. (3x4x3 - post-canon, yaoi, drama, angst)


Faded 

by Raletha

* * *

PG : post-canon, yaoi, drama, angst : 3x4x3

* * *

He often dreams he's lost. Sometimes he's lost somewhere—a city unknown, wandering the streets. Sometimes he's in a home he does not recognise, wandering mazes of rooms. Sometimes he's at some unfamiliar venue trying to find the person he came with. 

And sometimes, he loses more than his way; he loses himself. In his dream he wanders, forgetting who he is, with whom he was, how he got here, and where he lives. The sensation of forgetting is cold—terrifying, and lonely. So he wanders.

He knows the memories are there, but as he tries to catch them, they break from his fingers like cobwebs in the wind, leaving just enough for him to know he's lost them. And thus he dreams tonight.

When he wakes up he still feels the loss. Wherever he is—for he does not remember—is dark. He is not alone. There's another body in the bed lying next to him. Next to him, but not too near. He can feel the warmth and hear the person's breath. He sits up carefully and looks for the silhouette of a lamp nearby. He sees one, with an hourglass base and a steep, tall shade, but he decides against turning it on. In the dark he gets up and moves to an armchair crouched by the window.

The room is chilly, and in the chair he finds a coarse woolen sweater. He pulls it on over his t-shirt. It fits so it might be his.

He knows there have been other nights like this: that is the silk clinging to his fingers, the knowledge that this isn't the first time he's woken up not knowing his name or where he is or why he is. As he sits in the dark waiting for remembrance to return to him, the gloomy details of the room come slowly into focus. It feels like a hotel room. He pulls back the thin curtains to discover he is in a city—an old city with ornate architecture and narrow streets.

The person in the bed has blond hair but is lying facing away from him. Should he wake his companion? Or perhaps make a noise so the person will wake on his or her own?

He decides upon the latter, and realises that his bladder needs relief. He goes to the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack so the light and sounds of water will spill into the room. It's a gentle enough way to wake someone. He flushes the toilet and washes his hands, but does not look into the mirror. He leaves the light on and the door ajar when he returns to the room.

His companion is sitting up in the bed, and he sees that it is a young man—close to his age, he knows intuitively.

"Trowa?" asks the young man.

The name, though spoken softly thunders in his psyche and claims him, and the voice... The voice stirs first blank fear—rejection, betrayal, and pain—but the fear is gone in a flash; he barely has time to lose his breath to it. It gives way to something else, something deeper and safer and warmer. He exhales and feels the muscles in his shoulders melt.

"We're in Prague," the young man says, and then waits silently for a time before speaking again. "We've been traveling together to help you put your past back together."

Yes. He starts to remember.

"Quatre," he says, and the syllables feel familiar to his mouth.

"Come back to bed?"

Trowa nods and finds the hem of his sweater with fingertips that now recognise its texture. Catherine knitted the sweater and gave it to him this past Christmas. In the light the sweater is a dark brown, natural wool, he remembers. He pulls the garment over his head, folds it carefully, and sets it once more upon the seat of the chair. Quatre doesn't say anything further while this happens. They've both been here before, and there's an odd comfort in the familiarity of that.

He can tell Quatre's smiling at him as he slips back beneath the sheets. Quatre pulls the bed's heavy quilt up to their shoulders and, under the covers, rests his fingertips against Trowa's hand. Come morning, the only thing Trowa forgets are his dreams.

**the end**

* * *


End file.
